


Trust

by Jakobslock



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: M/M, Ocs babey - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:47:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28306269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jakobslock/pseuds/Jakobslock
Summary: a chance meeting between two men on the run
Comments: 1
Kudos: 1





	Trust

**Author's Note:**

> A very merry christmas to my lovely boyfriend, my cowboy partner in crime <3

Trust. La confianza. The idea that you could put your life in someone's hands, and that they would keep it safe. It's compassion, understanding, a mirror image in another. Comfort and safety and never second guessing a damn thing, never having to watch your back because you know someone is watching it for you.

What a load of horseshit. 

Trust was for cowards and naive fools. Anyone you dared to let close would stab you in the back without a second thought if it meant they could make a quick buck off your corpse. It happened with his mother, it happened with the railroad, with the courier service, with the guy he briefly courted in Tumbleweed, over and over and over again with the Del Lobos. At some point a man hits his limit. Being framed during a gang raid and left at the mercy of the sheriff was Beren's. 

He barely managed to avoid execution. He only did because he spilled every secret he had, all the dirt he had on the Montez siblings, even little Carmela. The noose was traded for a life behind bars, his quick talking the only thing that saved him. Even in prison, he made friends, and he made a shiv as well to keep under his pillow in case those friends went the other way. He made a vow to himself that when he got out, he'd only trust himself. 

Unfortunately, he already fucked that up. Some gang of mercenaries busted the prison, looking for someone else. Course, that doesn't mean he's not taking advantage, elbowing some jackass with a bandana over his face out of the way and stealing a gun on the way out. His first thought was to go back to New Austin, to the little she'd he's made a safehouse of. It's not like he had anywhere better to go, other than to beg for his old gang to take him back. But of course, of course, as soon as he hits Armadillo, it goes to shit. Alden, thank god for Alden, he saw Beren first, and pointed to his mirror image on the wanted poster. Montez heard he got out, considers him a traitor and a liability. _There's a big price tag on your head, hun,_ Alden had said, _You best turn around and get out of New Austin._

Turns out, someone had let it slip exactly How Beren had escaped the noose. The Del Lobos worked with local authorities when it came to one of their own, and due to the information Beren had given up, he was a dead man walking. The Montez's had eyes everywhere. He wouldn't last two days.  
He'd stayed one night, in the back room of the post office, before jumping a train at dawn and leaving his home of almost ten years behind, maybe forever. 

Trust, what a joke. 

So he runs, with little more than a saddlebag slung over his shoulder with some provisions and his lucky revolver. He wanders, for a while. A long while. A couple weeks, and then he sees the first wanted poster while stopping for a resupply at Manzanita. The man running the place recognizes him, of course. Thankfully it's just him. Nothing that can't be solved with a shot to the leg and the butt of a pistol smashed into his temple.

Beren puts him inside, at least, dragging the unconscious body across the floor. He leaves after taking some provisions and a pair of gold earrings from the bedroom. Grabs the horse hitched outside for good measure, a beautiful mare with a strawberry coat. He takes the horse, and he runs. North, maybe? Along the river, for a while. Then the woods a while more. He avoids the rail lines like the plague, and the few times he encountered others on the road he ran into the trees before they got close enough to see his face. 

Eventually he and his horse, who he affectionately names Marigold, reach a valley. A massive, empty, unpopulated valley, with a river full of fish and a big open sky. 

It's absolutely perfect.

After some consideration, he backtracks along the railroad to a house several miles back. He waits until sunset, grabs some sheets off the clothesline and a decent wood axe from the back porch, after a moment's thought grabs the washboard as well. Back on the horse and back to the valley. 

In the moonlight, the emptiness feels more vast, more isolated. Riding through the valley, no sound but his horse's footfall and the running river. He is completely, utterly alone. When he realizes this, he starts to laugh. Loudly. There's absolutely no one here, no one to see him, no need to run. He's completely alone and for the first time in weeks, Beren actually relaxes. The valley is perfect, and after he spends the next day or two building himself a decent shelter and fashioning a fishing rod, it's the perfect home for a man on the run for the long summer months leading into fall. He spends almost half a year out there, encountering only the occasional traveling trader or poacher (who he generally robs) and a delightfully odd woman named Harriet.

But soon, all too soon, the cold bite of winter starts to blow in with the wind. Snow covers the mountain peaks, creeping in on his quiet paradise. He has to leave the valley, move east. Find a town, maybe, get some new clothes and gear. He's terrified, but he has to. Beren packs up his things, saddles his horse, and heads east, towards the little town of Valentine.

Several weeks before, and several hundred miles away, a train comes to a halt outside of New Austin. It was a normal train, until you noticed the passenger cars full of travellers. Targets ripe for the picking. 

They had started from the back, after one of their men had taken the engine and brought the massive machine to a screaming halt, the brakes loudly creaking at the abrupt shift. 

All in all, it was a run of the mill job. Get on, make your way from the back car to the front, guns drawn. People will do anything when there's a pistol in their face, spilling their pockets and opening their purses for the chance to see the next sunrise. They always react the same. The people that travel this way are soft, not willing to raise a pistol in return.

Reno goes through the motions, barely even looking at people through the holes in his mask. He moves through the car with a couple other men, letting the one in front bark orders for the passengers to hand over their valuables. Reno follows behind, a silent shadow. He goes last, because people look at him and feel a sense of fear. The ones who had resisted, or hidden something secret up their sleeve hoping to escape notice, they all give in when he walks by, stalking through the aisle like a black spectre. He doesn't even need to speak, just point the gun and fix people with that piercing stare behind the mask, and they throw what remains of their wealth into the bag he carries. 

It's a perfectly routine job. Nothing he hasn't done.

Yet there's something prickling the back of his mind, a feeling he can't shake. One he doesn't quite recognize, but if he did he would call it unease. It grew as he reached the front of the car, where the gang was to meet their getaway man with their horses. Something was off. Wrong. There was a sound coming from the front car. The two men he was with shouted for him to go investigate while they went through luggage. Reno nodded, making his way to the front car.

There was the sound again, a shout. Reno quickens his pace a bit, sliding the door open to the cabin. The leader of the gang is there, a couple other men scattered around. He's standing there with his gun pointed at two figures. One is an older woman, maybe in her late fifties. The other is younger, barely in her twenties. They're dressed simply, unassuming in every way. Something about them makes Reno stop in his tracks. 

"Now now, no need to cause a fuss. We're simple businessmen! All we need is a bit of cooperation," the leader says, casually gesturing with his gun. 

"Don't kid yourselves, you damned thieves!" the older woman says. The sound of her voice makes Reno's blood run cold. He knows that voice. He moves unconsciously, slowly stepping towards them as he registers the girl's hand me down dress, and the woman's piercing eyes and black hair. Identical to his own. 

"Thieves? We are taking what is rightfully ours!" the leader says again, getting angry. The woman doesn't back down, glaring daggers. 

"You damned devil riders are nothin' but liars and thieves. You ruined my damn life! My family! There ain't nothin' respectable or rightful 'bout you." 

Her voice, he knows that voice, even if the memories are hazy. Telling him to come inside before dark, to watch his baby sister for an afternoon, crying and screaming over his father. Her voice rings through with sparkling clarity, and it's the same one that's in front of him. 

The woman looks up when he approaches, her gaze full of hatred and disgust. But then...Her eyes settle on his gun. The pistol. Recognition colors her features, and she looks like he's about to speak. The leader gets annoyed.

"Hey! Pay attention, you old hag! Just hand over the necklace and me and my fine band of men will be on our way."

She doesn't look away. Her eyes meet Reno's. He can't bring himself to move in that moment. The girl cowers behind her, too young to remember. The woman takes a breath.

"I would rather die than give anything to you damned cowards. Y'all are lyin' to yourselves, and every one of your boys is a brainwashed lackey."

She turns back to the leader, defiant. She spits in his face, and Reno feels a sense of pride, riddled with confusion. The leader shouts in anger, hitting the woman across the face with his pistol. The girl cries out in fear.

"You want death, huh? Fine by me!"

Things seem to slow, then. The leader brings his pistol up to the woman's forehead, and Reno barely registers his own shout before the shot rings out. The man he trusted, who he'd followed blindly. Foolishly. The woman drops to the ground. The girl screams, backing against the window in terror. Reno lunges for the gun, but gets there just a split second after the second shot. The screams stop.

From there it's a blur of screaming and gunfire. He takes down a few, he knows he does, as the leader shouts for them to kill him while he runs. He holds out as long as he can, the train at a frenzy of movement and bullets. He can't hold them off. He's going to die here. 

With one last glance towards the two women, those empty, dead eyes that match his own burned into his memory, he runs. He kicks the door open, leaping out and running towards his horse. He manages to get in the saddle, running for the bridge in front of the train. Almost, almost. 

Another shot rings out. The horse drops, taking Reno with it down the hill, tumbling down to the riverbank below the cliffside. 

He wakes up sometime later, in pain and disoriented. He manages to sit upright, and the second his eyes fall on the dead horse beside him the events of last night all come flooding back. Thankfully there's no one around to hear him screaming. His mother had been shot in front of him, his sister right after. The family he'd been taken from, the only family he had. Killed by the man he'd trusted. 

Trust. What a fucking joke. Now, he had nothing. 

Eventually, he forces himself to get up. He's got to find a town, somewhere to gather supplies. Thankfully, he managed to get off with the bag of stolen valuables he'd had. He forced himself to stay focus, not think about the woman's voice or the girl's scream. He knows there's a fence somewhere along the railroad. Go there, get some money, follow the tracks to Blackwater, and go from there. He'll figure something out. He'll survive. He always has.

Thieves Landing is a shithole. He leaves as soon as the whispers start. The Hey, isn't that the one that stole from the Devil Riders? whispers. He's in town all of an hour. Heads to Blackwater from there. He spends some time doing odd jobs, but there's a pressure to move further east, away from the gang he left behind. He gets a horse, and follows the rail line towards Valentine, a town he's heard is easy to disappear in. Easy to run from. 

Valentine sets Beren's nerves on edge almost immediately. It's too perfect, too peaceful. The type of town you'd find a cult in and not even question it. But... There's people. A blessing and a curse, really. There's bound to be someone he can sweet talk into loaning him a bed, and there's plenty of places to steal from before he heads further east. 

Beren just hopes his bounty hasn't spread this far. As with any town, he decides first to head to the bar and try to find a mark. He gets a drink, trying to tap down on his rising anxiety about being around so many people after months. It isn't easy, but the whiskey helps. He takes a seat by the poker table, listening for anyone who's too cocky and maybe a bit too drunk that he can follow home. 

Other than a few rowdy patrons, it's a fairly quiet bar. Nothing at all interesting. A woman talks about her cheating husband, some men converse over a new trade route, a kid far too young to drink with dusty blond hair argues with the bartender. All normal. But...

There's something weird about the man in the corner. Something that goes beyond the bandana he's got over his face. The sight of him immediately sets Beren on edge, his brain shouting 'Bounty Hunter!' He freezes, hand tight around his shotglass. The man... Hasn't noticed him. He's not even looking around. Not exactly bounty hunter behavior. Maybe he's just weird? That would make two of them.

Beren can't explain it... But he gets up from his seat, heading to the bar. He asks if the tender recognises the guy and gets a disinterested shrug in return.

"He's polite enough, and pays his tab. Been here about three days."

Beren sits at the bar, ignoring the loud teenager talking shit about his hair. This stranger... He seems like a guy not to fuck with. No one's gone over and asked him for a card game or to join in on their chatter, and in a town like this that's a rarity. And more than that... There's something familiar about him, but Beren can't place it.

He's the exact opposite of the type of person Beren came here to find, but there's something about the guy that grabs his interest. So he goes against his better judgement.

Two beers in hand, he slides over to the table, sitting down across and sliding the pint over. The man doesn't take it, just staring at him through the holes in his mask. Beren shrugs and sits down.

"You're an odd type, no? What's a man like you doing in a shithole like this?"

The man stares at him still, then sighs.

"This is a respectable establishment," he grumbles. Beren grins.

"Exactly, hermano. It's too nice to be enjoyable, don't you think?"

"No."

"You're boring."

The man rolls his eyes, still not grabbing the drink. He doesn't say anything else, and Beren gets bored in about ten seconds.

"So what is it, hm? The hair or the accent?" he asks, gesturing to himself. The man glares, about three seconds from smacking him across the table.

"The attitude. You're obnoxious."

"You just met me!"

"And yet."

Small talk seems to be a skill this odd man doesn't have. Beren tests an elbow on the table, watching him curiously. The man shifts uncomfortably. 

"What do you want," he grumbles, glaring daggers. Beren shrugs, tilting his head.

"That's an interesting accent you have there, hermano. Not one you hear much in these parts outside of trade routes," he comments lightly, watching as the man stiffens his shoulders just slightly. Beren smiles, taking another drink. He pushes the other glass towards the man with a fingertip. 

"I don't much like your implication," he says.

"What implication? I am implying nothing, just making an observation. My accent is rare outside of New Austin as well, you know. What if we were neighbors?"

"We weren't."

"Right, right. Not that I would know, with that bit of cloth on your face."

The man sighs, seeming fed up. He finally goes for the beer, at least. Beren watches him with interest as he lifts the bandana just enough for Beren to get a glimpse of a sharp jawline and what looks like the tail end of a scar. Beren sighs as the man seems to have decided talking is too much work again. 

He chews the inside of his cheek, glancing over the man's outfit. All black, with a well worn pistol belt and a very decorated piece on it. Clearly some sort of merc, or a bounty hunter. But something about that mask...

The Del Lobos ran pretty much everything down in the southwest, but there was always the occasional splinter group that popped up now and then, looking to carve out their own name in the region. He vaguely remembers hearing about one that had cropped up in the southern part of the region. There had been rumors that the members wore masks to hide their identity at all times, even in public. He always thought it sounded stupid. Why would you make yourself so obvious? It made more sense to take the bandana off in public, blend in.

"Stop starin' at me," the man grumbles again, his fingers twitching on the table. The twitch of someone who wants to go for a gun. God dammit. Beren leans back in his chair, taking another swig of his drink and doing his best to look unassuming.

"Apologies, you just remind me of some people from my hometown. There was a gang with masks like yours," Beren says plainly, and waits. The reaction is instantaneous. The man's shoulders stiffen and he sits upright, his hands going for his lap. The gun, mostly likely. Bingo.

"What in the hell are you tryin' to accuse me of," he growls. Beren raises his hands, innocently.

"Nothing! Jeez, you need to relax."

The man does not relax. Beren rolls his eyes.

"If it is any consolation, no one is aware of that group this far out. What is it? Diablo something?"

"...Devil. Not diablo."

"Right. My point being, no one knows you here, and I have no intentions of telling."

"You gonna run back and rat me out to the Del Lobos instead?"

Now it's Beren's turn to glare, his hand tightening around his pint.

"I am not one of Montez's pets."

"Yeah? Then why're you so far east?" the man sounds almost cocky, like he got one up. How cute. Beren shrugs. He's not letting this man win.

"I imagine for much the same reason you are, hm? New beginnings, so on and so forth."

He smiles, lazy and friendly, careful not to let anything show on his face that can be used against him. The man's posture relaxes back into annoyance. He says nothing once more.

"This town, it is not one I wish to stay in," Beren says, taking another drink. "Too central to trade routes, and rumor says the sheriff has connections to the southwest. It is not a place to linger, as I am sure you have noticed."

The man says nothing, just staring for a second. Then, he nods. Almost imperceptibly. Beren's lips quirk into a grin. He's got an idea.

"You are heading east, yes? What with the cold, and whatever demons you have left in the desert."

"And if I am?"

"Then we are two of the same, my friend!"

"No we ain't."

"But we are! You simply do not see it."

"Quit the bullshit. What do you want."

The man crosses his arms over his chest, leaning back in his seat. Beren taps his fingers on the table, thinking it over for approximately three seconds before speaking.

"Well, misery loves company, does it not? And travel is far easier with a friend on the road."

The man stares at him, incredulously.

"No."

"Hear me out-"

"No way in hell-"

"Oh come on, cabrón-"

"Am I traveling with a jackass like you."

Beren huffs, leaning back and rolling his eyes.

"You could at least hear me out."

"The hell do you think you offer? I work alone."

"Yeah, yeah. Lone ranger, I get it," Beren waves him off, "But I have several skills I know for a Fact you do not."

"Those bein'?"

"Sharpshooting, for one. Hard to imagine you being that good a shot with that thing on your face."

"Right. You got a gun?"

"Not yet."

The man scoffs, shaking his head. Beren wrinkles his nose.

"Fine. You know what I have that you do not? Charisma."

"Like that matters."

"Spoken like a man without it. Charm opens doors, my friend. If you can charm someone, you can lie to them. If you can lie, you can act. People are easy to play, and I am very, very good at it."

"Sure."

Beren slams his drink down in annoyance.

"You repel people. This is a friendly town, yet I am the only one who has bothered with you. The bartender told me so."

"There ain't anythin' you talkin' people's ears off can do that I can't get myself."

"Are you willing to bet on it?"

"Pardon?"

Beren grins. He's got his interest now.

"How about a wager?" he gestures over his shoulder, at the poker table. "The man in the jacket has just won the pot, and has made it near entirely through a pitcher of ale on his own. He is getting up to leave. I can get those winnings from him."

"So what's the bet?" the man asks, leaning forward a bit. Beren slams the rest of his beer. 

"I get the pot, you let me travel east with you, until we are far enough from our demons to not need a partner. If I fail, I leave and you never see me again."

He holds his hand out, fixing the man with a cocky smile. The man in the mask hesitates, looking from his hand to him. He takes Beren's hand, shaking it once firmly. 

"I look forward to parting ways," he says, a smug tone to his voice. Underestimating him. Good. 

"Follow me outside in five minutes." Beren smirks. He takes a second to mess up his braided hair just enough to look off, cracks his neck, and then clumsily gets up from the table, stumbling and knocking his pint glass to the floor. Beren stumbles towards the door, conveniently intercepting the poker winner.   
He bumps into the man, slurring curses and swearing where he stands. The man isn't much better off, but he laughs loudly, clapping Beren on the shoulder. Beren plays along, stumbling and patting the man on the back, before swaying and nearly sending both of them crashing to the floor. The drunken man gets him upright, and they both stumble towards the door, laughing loudly at nothing. 

Thankfully, the rest of the poker players don't follow. Likely upset over their loss. As they get out the door, Beren pretends to trip, knocking the other man a couple steps to the side, and conveniently slipping a hand into his coat pocket as they stumble. The man moves away and Beren, still acting drunk, clumsily rights himself. He laughs again, grabbing the man's arms with a smile. Then, he gets an odd look on his face, and ducks around the side of the building, pretending to lose the contents of his stomach. The drunken man laughs, waving him off and leaving for the hotel. 

Once he's out of sight, Beren drops the act. He straightens, brushing his hair back and leaning against the side of the building. He pulls the wad of bills out of his pocket, counting it in the shadow of the building. About $60, not bad at all. 

A slow clap starts behind him, causing him to startle and turn around. The man in the mask is leaning against the porch support of the saloon, clapping. Beren waves the stack of bills, coming over to meet him.

"Alright, I'll admit that was impressive," the man says. Beren bows at the waist.

"It would appear that I have won the bet, yes?" he asks, smirking arrogantly. The man sighs, shaking his head.

"I guess so. I'll keep my word, least for now."

Beren shrugs.

"That works for me," he says, holding his hand out to shake again. The man straightens from the pole, taking his hand and shaking it. When their hands release, Beren pulls out the stack of bills. He counts out about half of it, holding it out to the man. He stares at the money.

"What's this for?" he asks, not taking it.

"An insurance policy. Every man can be bribed."

The man sighs, seeming to remember how obnoxious Beren is. But, he takes the money, quickly pocketing it. 

"We leave at dawn. Meet at the auction yard with your horse. We'll head east from there."

Beren nods, a hand on his hip. The masked man nods as well, stepping off the porch and into the street.

"It's Beren, by the way," he calls. The masked man turns. Beren smiles. "Names are a nice thing for travelling companions."

The man moves his head in a way that makes it obvious he's rolling his eyes. 

"Reno," he says, before turning again and walking towards the hotel. "Dawn, or I'm leaving without you."

"I don't suppose your room has enough space for two?"

The man doesn't turn, just flips him off over his shoulder. Beren laughs, pocketing his winnings with a shake of his head. Dawn, huh? He'd better get to work.

They have a long road ahead of them, after all.


End file.
